When i write about my reading and stuff, i don't see it as egotistical, but rather a separate entity, like Caspar the friendly ghost a special imaginary friend, that i go on and on about.
So in that spirit i wish to document in a rough draft, the progression of my literary tastes
In the beginning there was Stephen King
And Stephen King said Let there be Charles Baudelaire, Arthur Rimbaud, Emily Dickinson, and Friedrich Nietzsche. And Stephen King saw that it was good.
Then in the second phase King saw fit to create Henry Miller, a wild wayward child who opened up sideshow attractions named Oswald Spengler, from the ribs of Spengler arose Emil Cioran.
This in a nutshell was the galaxy of Literature for Monsieur Junky till he acquired a kindle, and he spent a few fevered years collecting everything he was interested in. He stepped into another world where all of the above existed amongst so many others.
And M. Junky chose topics and groupings, he said
Let there be Delphi classics, with over a 100 authors whose "complete works" were contained, and it served as a moon reflecting the light coming from the base topic or subject, which was his inherited faith, a faith he durst not put on for himself, but contemplates alongside the secular, and other faiths.
And knowing there is no more major new creations, that all there is in the Literary Universe is there to enjoy, M. Junky as in a dream euphoria, plays this on repeat
while familiarizing himself with all these worlds, the planets Charles Dickens, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Emile Zola etc.
With each work of the literary, one comprehends it according to or through how one is situated, how one is in his or her's complete make up, for each person each work will be new at any other time. In other words there in an infinity times 7 or so billion interpretations of everything. M. Junky in a sad like bliss knows that he is missing so much, all he wants is to experience the timeless, because time is inherently an enemy, and jettisoned into the eternal realm if only vicariously is a sweet pleasure, and M. Junky wonders whether if an afterlife exists, would there not be time enough to read in a wholly satisfactory way?